


Curses and the Breaking of

by R00bs_Teacup



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, Knitting, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-30
Updated: 2016-10-30
Packaged: 2018-08-27 23:57:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8422711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: Thimblerig asked for Porthos and the sweater curse, so here it is. Took me a while, but I got there in the end :) For those like me, who had no clue what the sweater curse was, http://knitty.com/ISSUEwinter02/FEATsweatercurse.html





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Thimblerig](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thimblerig/gifts).



> WARNINGS: Porthos has feelings about his past, which is the same as in the series- no mother, etc. Only he's modern, so he got put in care.

_“Once upon a time in a kingdom far, far away from where we now sit, but otherwise very similar, there lived a king and queen who loved to knit. They had the most luxurious yarns, the most intricate patterns, the most skilled craftsmen, in all the kingdoms. They threw open their great halls to all and sundry every week, welcoming people from all walks of life come and knit and share their projects. Their kingdom and their people thrived, never cold in the winter, never missing company or support. But, even with all this, they were not happy. For while they could knit until their halls were festooned with hats and blankets and scarves and every servant and resident had thick gloves, they had no child to make beautiful little soft things for, and this saddened them.”_

 

Porthos yawns. The warm cafe, the storytelling, the fact that he’s currently sprawled among the cushions, are making him sleepy. Several children are sprawled over him, using him as a cushion seeing as he’s nicked a fair few of theirs. They’re the children of the people he comes and knits with and he’s familiar with them, them with him. Nicky, curled against his stomach, has fallen asleep, little and warm and soft. Not only that, but he’s got the café kittens and cat using his thigh and shoulder and arm as sleeping places. His knitting has fallen to the wayside somewhere, wool tangled from the kittens’ play. Porthos yawns again, eyes falling shut.

 

“ _After consulting many, many wise men and women, there came to the castle the oldest, the wisest, the cleverest person in all the kingdoms. So old, all had forgot their name, their face, whether they were man or woman, girl or boy when born. Stories had them coming in all guises, shapes, and genders. The day they came to the castle of the king and queen, they came in a great sweeping cloak, showing only a wizened hand curled around a staff._

 

_‘We are yearning for a child, it is breaking our hearts and hurting our kingdom,’ the king said as the queen wept._

 

_‘It is the curse,’ the wisest and the oldest and the cleverest person said. Their voice rang through the hall, issuing from the dark of the hood._

 

_‘We have brought no curse down upon ourselves,’ the king protested, his grief put aside for a moment by affront. ‘We are good and kind rulers, our people love us. They are grieving with us, that is why our kingdom fails, not a curse.’_

 

_‘It is a curse you have brought upon yourselves. The sweater curse. When e’r a person should knit but one single row of a sweater for their beloved, their beloved shall be no more. You have banished your child from you over and over again by knitting too early,’ the oldest, the wisest, the cleverest person said.”_

 

Porthos snorted, shifting, and cracked open an eye. Charon’s watching him, and seeing him more awake gives him a significant look and nods. Porthos stifles his laughter as Charon takes a breath to carry on the story. So much for Charon leaving him be about knitting Athos a jumper. Porthos should have known it was all just a show, all that ‘you do you, babe, I won’t judge’. Now here ze is, teaching all these little kids to help ze dissuade Porthos from knitting. Porthos lets the next bit of the story wash over him, the oldest wisest cleverest person (Charon’s self-insert, Porthos is sure) persuading the king and queen of the truth of the curse by journeying to a neighbouring kingdom where the curse struck. He dozes off before he can tune back in properly, the purring of the kitten curled against his shoulder soothing him.

 

“I dunno, Paulie, maybe we should make it a bit more tighter.”

 

A small lisping voice wakes Porthos. He takes in his surroundings, stretching. Or he tries to stretch. He tugs at his wrist, and a smattering of laughter breaks out. He looks down at himself, and finds himself bound round and round with the jumper wool. Paulina and Margueritte are crouched either side of him, tying bows into his hair, while tiny little Henry is perched on his chest, peering worriedly at the girls as they work. He’s the lisper. The reason for his waking identified, Porthos sits up with a roar, slowly, careful that Henry falls against his thighs and not onto the ground. Margueritte and Pualina squeak and scutter away, as Porthos tugs himself loose and bounces to his feet, Henry shrieking in his arms.

 

“Alright, calm down, now,” Charon says, coming out from the back with a tray of three refreshed teapots.

 

Porthos settles Henry on his hip, laughing, and turns to the knitters. Margueritte has dashed to Treville, head against his knee, and Paulina is up on Flea’s knee stealing her cake. Porthos feels a tug at his jeans, and finds Marie looking up at him wide-eyed. He crouches and sets Henry down to toddle over unsteadily to Agnes.

 

“What’s up, Marie?” Porthos asks.

 

“Are you really a giant?” she asks, gazing at him.

 

Porthos considers. He is big, both tall and wide and round. Why not a giant? He grins, and Marie jumps backwards, tripping. He catches her and she yells, then laughs wildly as he lifts her, fist beating his shoulder.

 

“Don’t eat me!” she cries, laughing and laughing. Then her head rests heavy against his shoulder. “Are you a giant, Porthos? Really?”

 

“Why would I be?” Porthos asks.

 

“The source of the curse,” Maries tells him. “Got to bind you with wool so you can’t keep on cursing people who want to knit jumpers.”

 

“Ah, I see,” Porthos says, catching Charon cracking up against Flea’s neck, burying zir laughter in her hair. “Now, see, I think you’ve got the wrong end of the stick, there, guys. I may be a giant, but I don’t curse people. Not on the regular anyway.”

 

He sits, gathering his wool from about him, his needles from the floor. Marie goes over to Treville too, who scoops her up to sit with Margueritte, his two little lost girls. Porthos looks away, the bitterness of it still hurting. That Treville would foster these two, but not Porthos all those years ago, rankles. Doesn’t matter by now, of course. Porthos checks his knitting and does a row, the kittens after his twitching ball of wool again. Charon comes over with two mugs and grins.

 

“Telling them stories, you’ll get me into all sorts, won’t you?” Porthos murmurs.

 

“Anything to save you from yourself,” Charon says, passing him tea.

 

“Do you really believe in jumper curses?”

 

“Nah, not much. Best not to tempt fate though, eh? Where is your posh git, anyway? I thought he was coming with, today.”

 

“Got called in,” Porthos says. “What do you think of this wool? I think it’ll be good, with a stripe of that purple stuff you’ve got in.”

 

“No discount on the purple stuff, it’s proper good,” Charon says.

 

“Come on. We were at SCHOOL together.”

 

“I’m not Bertie ‘Push Over’ Wooster, won’t work,” Charon says. “Oh, if I’m Bertie, you’re Bingo Little, the Athos is Rosie M Banks. Has he been writing Mills and Boone on the sly?”

 

“More like Raymond Chandler,” Porthos says. “Sam Spade, brooding detective, alcohol sodden and leaning broodingly.”

 

“True.”

 

“Ridiculous man,” Porthos mutters, more to himself than to Charon, smiling into his knitting. “Soft bugger, he is, kind and soft and nothing like them stupid detectives. And so tiny. Got to keep him warm. Anyway, I can’t be cursing myself, I already knit him a scarf.”

 

“No, you knitted yourself a scarf then thought he looked chilly, wrapped him in it, and wouldn’t let him ever give it back.”

 

“Same thing. I made him gloves, too.”

 

“Fingerless gloves definitely don’t count to the curse,” Charon says. “Do you want cake?”

 

“Already ate about me weight in it,” Porthos says. “Bugger. I dropped a stitch somewhere I think.”

 

He ignores Charon until he’s got everything sorted, by which point Charon’s got onto how amazing Flea is, and off the curse. Porthos eats the cake Charon puts in front of him, and knits, and listens close enough. They’ve done a bit of musical chairs, and Porthos is sat with Agnes and Flea talking about babies, when the bell over the door rings wildly. Charon gets up to see to zir customer, but it’s just Athos, coming bundling in out of the rain. Porthos isn’t sure when it begun to rain.

 

“You ready for home, Porthos?” Athos asks, lifting one of the kittens off Porthos’s knee to rub his damp cheek then stroke.

 

“Are you done already?” Porthos asks.

 

“Yeah. Found the little girl hiding in the shed. She refused to go home, so I called Child Protective Services, they can deal,” Athos says. Porthos focuses on his knitting. “She wasn’t hurt, just cross and a little freaked out by her Dad losing his temper. Bit of PTSD or something there, I think. I called Sylvie, she’ll sort that.”

 

“She’s good,” Porthos says, nodding. He smiles up at Athos, and Athos nods too. “Sit, drink coffee, I’m gonna finish this bit. Look, you like?”

 

“Very nice,” Athos says, looking around for a chair and coffee. Charon obligingly supplies both, with only a little grudging, mostly aimed at Porthos. “It’s a nice green.”

 

“Yes. It’s a jumper, for you,” Porthos says.

 

Marie, Margueritte, Paulina, and Henry, playing under the table, set up a clamouring protest and come out to tell Athos the story about the evil knitting giant who curses people who knit for beloved people. Charon looks very pleased and smug. Porthos sets his empty mug pointedly on the table, and not on the tray, and clears up his knitting. He usually helps Charon in the kitchen at the end of these things, what with it being Sunday so zir usual kitchen staff not really being around. Today Porthos stows his things and gathers himself two kittens, and then sits, waiting for Athos to finish indulging the kids and drinking his coffee.

 

“A giant, hmm?” Athos murmurs, out on the street, bundled up in a new scarf and gloves Porthos finished up this morning. The rain is stopped but it's still chilly and damp.

 

“Mm,” Porthos agrees.

 

“Is this a passive aggressive thing?” Athos asks, frowning in the window at the cafe wool shop, toward Charon.

 

“No. Maybe. Yeah? I dunno. Ze doesn’t like you.”

 

“Noticed that. Why?”

 

Porthos takes Athos’s hand, and doesn’t answer. Athos doesn’t usually allow hand holding in public, but between the coffee shop and Porthos’s flat is only five minutes, and it’s allowed, so Porthos takes full advantage. The why of it is complicated, and Porthos isn’t sure he really knows, not well enough to explain anyway.

 

“It’s the same sort of ‘why’ as Treville with his kids upsetting me. Same sort of ‘why’ as Flea and Charon being together is a bit of an irritant sometimes. Same sort of ‘why’ as me getting frustrated with you when you talk, sometimes, about things that cost money, or school, or university.”

 

“You were all close, growing up?” Athos asks. “I know you grew up in and out of each other’s lives, with the fostering and homes, but you were close?”

 

“Yeah,” Porthos says. “Really close. Maybe ze’s jealous, or annoyed about your having come from money, or frustrated with me for spending years being happy alone, and now throwing myself into this. Talked a lot to me about whether I minded being alone, single, about being queer, about found family and how to build family and community around us. I was always on about being happy on my own.”

 

“You weren’t?”

 

“I was. I am now happy with you. It’s quite simple, but ze now thinks I was wanting this, and didn’t talk to zir. It’s all kinds of stuff really,” Porthos says. “All kinds of tangled up, fucked up, history stuff.”

 

“You’re okay, though? You and zir? And you?”

 

“Yes, and yes. I’m very okay. Especially if we stop off at the chippy, that’ll make me extra okay.”

 

Athos laughs, but leads Porthos into the chip shop and even pays. Porthos is happy, until about eleven thirty. Athos is asleep beside him, the audiobook Porthos is listening to not disturbing him. Porthos is drowsing, when suddenly, his mind turns to Charon and the story and the knitting and the curse, the day whirling around his head in a mess of colours and impressions and emotions,  and Porthos suddenly sits up, heart beating hard against his ribs. Athos stirs, makes a grumbling noise, then sits up to wrap himself around Porthos, like he does when Porthos has s nightmare, dozing off again sitting up.

 

“Athos?” Porthos asks, waking him more.

 

“Mm? Okay?” Athos asks, patting Porthos’s chest, rubbing over his stomach.

 

“You’re _not_ going to break up with me, are you? Over this sweater?” Porthos asks.

 

“No,” Athos says. Porthos waits for more, but Athos seems to think that’s adequate.

 

“You don’t think it’s too clingy of me? Going too fast? Too much of a commitment? It doesn’t scare you that I knit you things?” Porthos asks.

 

“No,” Athos says again. Porthos waits, again. Athos sighs. “You knitted me a silly octopus after you met me, because I said I had nothing on my desk.”

 

“It wasn’t silly. And I crocheted it,” Porthos says.

 

“I still asked you out after that, Porthos. I knew you were ridiculous about wool. I like jumpers and am looking forward to having one that’ll mean something important,” Athos says. “But I’m not over-investing in it, I know that partly you just like knitting. I’m getting to know you quite well. Besides which, that curse is superstition. And, from what I’ve read, is something that comes out of of a social construct of dating. It relies on the miscommunication of people inundated with media telling them how to feel and be around partners. It relies on people who date each other without being honest about what they want and where they are headed. It’s also usually applied, from what I’ve read, and yeah I have read because Charon sent me links, to straight couples.”

 

“You’re going to write an essay about the phenomenon, aren’t you?” Porthos asks, pulling his knees up to rest his head on.

 

“Yes, I might,” Athos says. “On the social rules and constructs that create it and make it real.”

 

“So it is real.”

 

“No, because we go on tumblr so we know that society is all a huge construction,” Athos says, clearly losing patience. Porthos snorts. “Look, I like you, I like that you knit, I like jumpers. The curse is Charon trying to wind you up.”

 

“Yeah,” Porthos agrees. “Why do you think Treville didn’t want me? Why’d he give me back?”

 

“He thought he could help, wanted to help, but then realised that he couldn’t,” Athos says. “You were so full of grief, and you wanted to be independant. He thought it would help more for you to have a friend than a father, by that point.”

 

“Yeah,” Porthos says.

 

“I’m not leaving you, not going to break up over a stupid jumper. I’m not giving you back,” Athos says, the last a fierce whisper against Porthos’s neck, arms tight around him. “Never giving you back. I love you.”

 

Porthos nods, and leans into Athos. Athos lies awake with him for a long time, but eventually Porthos drifts off. He mostly forgets about the jumper curse, over the next month. Charon stops going on about it and the stories on Sundays turn back into more traditional fairy tales, with the queer twist Charon likes to add. Porthos makes steady progress on his Christmas knitting, between work and dates with Athos and tea and cake with Flea and Charon, or drinks with Treville. Life rolls onwards, and Porthos focusses on bearing being a social worker, keeping faith with the world, and his cases. One of his kids goes off to uni and he celebrates that, and another comes out of juvie and starts actually turning up at school, sporadically, and he celebrates that, too.

 

It’s a Tuesday, and he’s sat at home with his laptop in the evening, ploughing through paperwork. He’s not expecting Athos, or anyone else, so when the buzzer goes he ignores it. A minute later his phone goes. He ignores that, too, but when it rings a second time he sighs and picks up, and when it’s Athos asking to come in, he answers the buzzer and lets him up. Athos is soaked to the skin and looks like an angry cat. Porthos bites his lip to keep his amusement stifled, and widens his eyes to peer up at Athos, blinking.

 

“You are forgiven,” Athos says. “Get those eyes away from me.”

 

“Yep,” Porthos says, relaxing to grin. “You look half drowned.”

 

“Yes, I was stood out there waiting,” Athos says, struggling out of his coat and scarf and gloves, handing everything to Porthos.

 

Porthos hangs the things up near the radiator to dry out, in case Athos is planning on leaving again. When he turns, Athos is crouched, rooting through his bag. He pulls out an orange Sainsburys carrier bag and hands it to Porthos, straightening. He gives Porthos an expectant look.

 

“Orange,” Porthos says.

 

“Look inside,” Athos says, sighing, exasperated.

 

Porthos nods. Inside is… something warm and soft and woolly. He hauls it out and holds it up. It’s a jumper. Bobbly, lumpy, swathes done in different wools and different needles. It’s huge, it’ll swamp even him, even over his stomach. Porthos gazes at it, open mouthed.

 

“What… what?” Porthos asks.

 

“Put it on,” Athos demands. “See if it fits.”

 

Porthos wriggles into it, sighing blissfully at the sleeves falling over his hands, the whole thing big and warm and snuggly. He hunches into it and grins out at Athos. It has a turtleneck. Like a built in scarf.

 

“Did you make this?” Porthos asks.

 

“A bit. Some. Everyone did some on it, and they all helped. Charon taught me to knit. I know it’s not perfect, or even particularly nice, but I thought, the curse. It’s a jumper that I knitted. Now the curse is fulfilled, and broken, right? Charon says right. So you don’t need to worry about it, when you finish my jumper.”

 

“I haven’t been worrying,” Porthos says.

 

“You haven’t been working on my jumper, either,” Athos says, a note of acerbity creeping in. “I want that jumper for the winter, and you’ve been avoiding it.”

 

“I guess I haven’t done anything. Haven’t had much time recently,” Porthos says. “I guess maybe I was secretly worried. Secret from myself though, too, I hadn’t noticed.”

 

“Now you needn’t. Unless you feel a sudden urge to dump me because I gave you that monstrosity.”

 

“It’s not a monstrosity,” Porthos says, voice cracking. “It’s perfect.”

 

Athos looks alarmed. Porthos sniffs, laughing, then sniffs again, rubbing his watery eyes. Athos huffs, makes a brave face, and comes and hugs Porthos. Porthos presses into his shoulder and cries a bit.

 

“You’re amazing, Athos,” Porthos whispers.

 

“Charon looked a bit shocked when I told him my plan,” Athos says. “I think I’ve won ze over at least a bit.”

 

“Yeah,” Porthos agrees. “Probably. Looking after me, eh? You’re amazing.”

 

“I love you, of course I look after you,” Athos snaps. “In the name of which, I am cooking you dinner, because Flea says you’ve been busy and not eating properly.”

 

“Just because I texted her about eating spaghetti hoops,” Porthos grumbles.

 

“That is a terrible dinner. I’m going to make you something proper, with vegetables, and I brought apples for desert, and we can watch either QI or Harry Potter but you’re not allowed to work, once we’ve eaten.”

 

“Bossy,” Porthos says, trailing after Athos towards the kitchen.

 

“Yes,” Athos agrees. “You knit, I boss.”

 

“Fair enough,” Porthos says. “Can I get another cuddle, before you get on that vegetable cooking?”

 

“Just a quick one,” Athos admonishes.

 

He stays in Porthos’s arms a long time, even so, and though he’s silent, he soothes. Porthos holds onto his tightly, then relaxes into the hug, into his jumper, into Athos.


End file.
